{"id":4191,"date":"2023-01-12T09:14:03","date_gmt":"2023-01-12T14:14:03","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.holdsuponhappiness.com\/?p=4191"},"modified":"2023-01-12T09:14:05","modified_gmt":"2023-01-12T14:14:05","slug":"a-poem-for-a-thursday-209","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.holdsuponhappiness.com\/index.php\/2023\/01\/12\/a-poem-for-a-thursday-209\/","title":{"rendered":"A Poem for a Thursday #209"},"content":{"rendered":"
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Photo by Ian Baldwin<\/a> on Unsplash<\/a><\/figcaption><\/figure>\n<\/div>\n\n\n
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Elinor Wylie was an American poet and novelist. She was born in 1885 to a socially prominent family and was raised to be a debutante and society wife. She did marry but then became notorious during her lifetime for her many affairs. Eventually, she left her husband and ran away to England with Harold Wylie, a Washington lawyer with a wife and three children. Wylie encouraged her to publish a volume of her poetry. The couple was eventually able to marry and they returned to the United States where Elinor became part of the literary circle of the day. She went on to publish several more volumes of poetry and a few novels. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Wylie suffered from high blood pressure that brought on unbearable migraines. She died of a stroke at age forty-three. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

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     1\nWhen the world turns completely upside down\nYou say we'll emigrate to the Eastern Shore\nAboard a river-boat from Baltimore;\nWe'll live among wild peach trees, miles from town.\nYou'll wear a coonskin cap, and I a gown\nHomespun, dyed butternut's dark gold color.\nLost, like your lotus-eating ancestor,\nWe'll swim in milk and honey till we drown.\n\nThe winter will be short, the summer long,\nThe autumn amber-hued, sunny and hot,\nTasting of cider and of scuppernong;\nAll seasons sweet, but autumn best of all.\nThe squirrels in their silver fur will fall\nLike falling leaves, like fruit, before your shot.\n\n     2\nThe autumn frosts will lie upon the grass\nLike bloom on grapes of purple-brown and gold.\nThe misted early mornings will be cold;\nThe little puddles will be roofed with glass.\nThe sun, which burns from copper into brass,\nMelts these at noon, and makes the boys unfold\nTheir knitted mufflers; full as they can hold,\nFat pockets dribble chestnuts as they pass.\n\nPeaches grow wild, and pigs can live in clover;\nA barrel of salted herrings lasts a year;\nThe spring begins before the winter's over.\nBy February you may find the skins \nOf garter snakes and water moccasins\nDwindled and harsh, dead-white and cloudy-clear.\n\n     3\nWhen April pours the colors of a shell\nUpon the hills, when every little creek\nIs shot with silver from the Chesapeake\nIn shoals new-minted by the ocean swell,\nWhen strawberries go begging, and the sleek\nBlue plums lie open to the blackbird's beak,\nWe shall live well\u2014we shall live very well.\n\nThe months between the cherries and the peaches\nAre brimming cornucopias which spill \nFruits red and purple, somber-bloomed and black;\nThen, down rich fields and frosty river beaches\nWe'll trample bright persimmons, while we kill\nBronze partridge, speckled quail, and canvasback.\n\n     4\nDown to the Puritan marrow of my bones\nThere's something in this richness that I hate.\nI love the look, austere, immaculate,\nOf landscapes drawn in pearly monotones.\nThere's something in my very blood that owns\nBare hills, cold silver on a sky of slate,\nA thread of water, churned to a milky spate\nStreaming through slanted pastures fenced with stones.\n\nI love those skies, thin blue or snowy gray,\nThose fields sparse-planted, rendering meager sheaves;\nThat spring, briefer than apple-blossom's breath,\nSummer, so much too beautiful to stay,\nSwift autumn, like a bonfire of leaves,\nAnd sleepy winter, like the sleep of death.\n\nWild Peaches\nElinor Wylie<\/pre>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Elinor Wylie was an American poet and novelist. She was born in 1885 to a socially prominent family and was raised to be a debutante and society wife. She did marry but then became notorious during her lifetime for her many affairs. Eventually, she left her husband and ran away to England with Harold Wylie, a Washington lawyer with a wife and three children. Wylie encouraged her to publish a volume of her poetry. The couple was eventually able to marry and they returned to the United States where Elinor became part of the literary circle of the day. She went on to publish several more volumes of poetry and a few novels. Wylie suffered from high blood pressure that brought on unbearable migraines. She died of a stroke at age forty-three. 1 When the world turns completely upside down You say we’ll emigrate to the Eastern Shore Aboard a river-boat from Baltimore; We’ll live among wild peach trees, miles from town. You’ll wear a coonskin cap, and I a gown Homespun, dyed butternut’s dark gold color. Lost, like your lotus-eating ancestor, We’ll swim in milk and honey till we drown. The winter will be short, the summer long, The autumn amber-hued, sunny and hot, Tasting of cider and of scuppernong; All seasons sweet, but autumn best of all. The squirrels in their silver fur will fall Like falling leaves, like fruit, before your shot. 2 The autumn frosts will lie upon the grass Like bloom on grapes of purple-brown and gold. The misted early mornings will be cold; The little puddles will be roofed with glass. The sun, which burns from copper into brass, Melts these at noon, and makes the boys unfold Their knitted mufflers; full as they can hold, Fat pockets dribble chestnuts as they pass. Peaches grow wild, and pigs can live in clover; A barrel of salted herrings lasts a year; The spring begins before the winter’s over. By February you may find the skins Of garter snakes and water moccasins Dwindled and harsh, dead-white and cloudy-clear. 3 When April pours the colors of a shell Upon the hills, when every little creek Is shot with silver from the Chesapeake In shoals new-minted by the ocean swell, When strawberries go begging, and the sleek Blue plums lie open to the blackbird’s beak, We shall live well\u2014we shall live very well. The months between the cherries and the peaches Are brimming cornucopias which spill Fruits red and purple, somber-bloomed and black; Then, down rich fields and frosty river beaches We’ll trample bright persimmons, while we kill Bronze partridge, speckled quail, and canvasback. 4 Down to the Puritan marrow of my bones There’s something in this richness that I hate. I love the look, austere, immaculate, Of landscapes drawn in pearly monotones. There’s something in my very blood that owns Bare hills, cold silver on a sky of slate, A thread of water, churned to a milky spate Streaming through slanted pastures fenced with stones. I love those skies, thin blue or snowy gray, Those fields sparse-planted, rendering meager sheaves; That spring, briefer than apple-blossom’s breath, Summer, so much too beautiful to stay, Swift autumn, like a bonfire of leaves, And sleepy winter, like the sleep of death. Wild Peaches Elinor Wylie<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":4192,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"_uf_show_specific_survey":0,"_uf_disable_surveys":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[2],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-4191","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-poem-for-a-thursday"],"aioseo_notices":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.holdsuponhappiness.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4191","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.holdsuponhappiness.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.holdsuponhappiness.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.holdsuponhappiness.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.holdsuponhappiness.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=4191"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/www.holdsuponhappiness.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4191\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":4194,"href":"https:\/\/www.holdsuponhappiness.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4191\/revisions\/4194"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.holdsuponhappiness.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/4192"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.holdsuponhappiness.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=4191"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.holdsuponhappiness.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=4191"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.holdsuponhappiness.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=4191"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}